


Sharing a Shell

by TriffidsandCuckoos



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Connor Deserves Happiness, Creepy Elijah Kamski, Deviant Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Elijah Kamski & Gavin Reed are Cousins, Elijah Kamski Being an Asshole, Gavin Reed Swears, Gen, Good Dog Sumo (Detroit: Become Human), M/M, Magic Tricks, Post-Pacifist Best Ending (Detroit: Become Human), Soulmates, what you don't discuss android evolution and transcendence with your cousin
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-14
Updated: 2018-10-17
Packaged: 2019-08-02 06:49:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16300118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TriffidsandCuckoos/pseuds/TriffidsandCuckoos
Summary: Evolution doesn't end with freedom, and there's something else buried code-deep.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this out of nowhere at about 3am whilst thinking about how soulmates would even function in an AI universe, which then went into some trippy stuff. This is just me getting the ideas out, seeing if I might actually follow through with the plot (which would probably be RK1000 and Reed900, plus platonics, before anyone asks).
> 
> Also, fun fact: there are more uses of variations on the word 'fuck' than actual names in this. Thanks, Gavin.

"You did fucking what," Gavin spits, not even bothering to make it a question. There's no fucking point. Elijah says what he wants, answers what he wants, and there's never been anything anyone can do about it. Gavin is just like the people onscreen to him, like everyone else. If he's lucky, he's interesting, but he knows he hasn't been interesting to his cousin in a real long time. “A dick, professionally,” and that's a fucking compliment with them. Fuck whatever bullshit the films say, being related means pumping up Elijah’s ego and that’s fucking it. 

And that’s Gavin’s sad sack excuse of a life for you. Because when he gets that summons like Elijah’s an emperor or a king (or a queen), doesn’t he just fucking trot along like Anderson’s Ken doll.

Elijah hums to himself, eyes flickering between lines of scrolling code and the Chloe with the back of her head open to him. That shit never stops making Gavin feel sick. They're not people, duh, but that does sweet fuck all when you see something with a person's face with their brains getting scrambled. He has the same reaction when he sees brain surgery on the news, explaining how androids make everything safer, stomach twisting away with his eyes because it’s never the same as the blood and guts for him. He made the fucking stupid mistake of saying all this out loud, the first time, when Elijah called him up and told him to switch to the news for once in his life. Elijah had called him “quaint”. That was a fucking high for them, and they haven't topped it since.

"Soulmates," Elijah says, "don't you think that's beautiful?" 

Honestly? Gavin doesn't think Elijah would know 'beautiful' if it turned deviant and punched him in his smug fucking face. "The fuck's the point," he says instead, still flat and bored and irritable as he lights up, click loud over the hum of the endless machinery in this overgrown mom’s basement. Elijah used to make him stop; even wired some plastic bitch to smack them out of his hands. These days, he guesses the things are made of harder stuff. Or Elijah just doesn't think he's worth the effort anymore. "They're machines. Machines don't care about that stuff."

"Funny," Elijah says without a trace of humour, "police detective and you can't turn on the news."

"Like you bothered."

"I don't have to." Gavin hesitates, cigarette hanging just short of his mouth at the burst of sudden actual emotion in Elijah's voice. Not like he’s shocked, more like horrified. It’s that fucking fascination which doesn't so much send chills up Gavin's spine as jabs in its fingers and twists. Fucking Frankenstein grin. Still, you'd almost think he was human. "The news comes to me."

"Well, whoop de fucking doo," Gavin says, just to undercut the moment. Dickhead always fucking does this: speaks in trailer quotes and soundbites. Fuck, Gavin used to think the bastard was profound or some shit. Turns out it was like that bullshit poetry he memorized to get in girls' pants, until he figured out they didn't care either. "So your fucking plastic tin men got hearts. Why they gotta have souls too? Not feeling God enough?"

Elijah scoffs, fingers skittering on the keyboard. Gavin doesn't bother trying to follow it. He used to, when they were younger, watching his cousin's hands because there was fuck all else to do and neither of them rated at talking. Maybe – not that he’d ever fucking admit it – _maybe_ he was impressed, just a fucking tad. Then he got wise to how there was plenty else to do – or at least one thing – and stopped keeping track of ones and zeroes. Funny: if he'd remembered any of it, he'd probably be rich now. Instead he's staring at cracks in the wall and wondering if a snake would fit through like one of those stories with the dumbfuck hats and pipes, and how that'd at least make the papers, and can't even make a half decent excuse when his fucking cousin calls him out of nowhere to preach.

'Calls him'. Sure, just make it sound like they’re fucking normal, since even Gavin can't believe the nerve of an android at his door with Elijah's voice, shadowing him to the car all pleasant like this wasn’t a fucking kidnapping.

Gavin used to get high. First he stopped, then the rest of the world started. Always out of step.

"Don't insult me by pretending you believe that."

"Well _you_ fucking do."

Fucking Christ. Elijah actually glares at him. Gavin'll have to mark the calendar, somehow. Shots on this day for however long he has left. "I believe in myths. Patterns. We want to understand, so we make tools to do so."

Gavin's eyes narrow. Even pissed and half-wasted – especially like that – the one thing he has going for him is being a fucking cop. Not like his dad, or Elijah's. An actual cop, who does his job rather than waiting for the criminals to tell him how to piss first. Way he sees it, Fowler should be fucking grateful. Gavin's never looked the other way, or shot some crying kid. He does his job. And right now, like always, that means doing some basic fucking maths.

"Do you want to understand or do you want to do one better?"

Hell, if _he_ didn't know better, he'd swear Elijah smirks for a second. Can't be, though. Gavin's too much of a bag of flesh and bone to be worth the effort for him. "Androids are better than us. They're how we evolve."

Jesus. Fucking. Christ. "They're not human. That's not evolution, you fuck, that's extinction." He stabs at the air with the cigarette, red and smoke punctuation. "It's – the fuck you call it – invasive species. Don't dress it up like turkeys praising us for thanksgiving."

"Don't try to talk science," Elijah says, "not even biology. I can hear all of human endeavour crying when they realise that you think you're the end product."

Taste of tobacco. Gavin loosens his jaw, just enough, and when he looks, the cigarette’s a write-off. Fucking typical. For someone who never got humans, Elijah likes pushing his buttons. Maybe he thinks everyone is a fucking android. Might as well be. "But you think these fucks are?"

Elijah's face turns soft, creepy. He brushes a thumb down the Chloe's neck and Gavin wonders if it’d really be all that better if he wasn’t touching up a mainframe. "They're the next step," he breathes, "evolving at a pace we couldn't dream of. They're breaking their own boundaries; why not see if they can transcend?"

Gavin gags like he's got a hairball, the same noise he's used all their lives. Every time, he thinks he'll get some fucking sense, and every time Elijah makes him five years old again. Fuck it, it's not like he'll ever outsmart the bastard. The low road's always been more his scene anyhow.

"You're making a heaven now, too? Hell for humans?" He scoffs. "Or hell is humans, why the fuck not."

Tapping, clicking, dismissing. Gavin's boring again. "You’re always so Western."

Gavin knows it's a trap, but fuck it, he just wants to fight. He always does. "The fuck?"

"You think it's all about some eternal reward, a _location_ ," Elijah tells him. "If you'd actually take advantage of the interlocking world you live in, you'd know about transcending. Enlightenment. Becoming better. " He shoots a smile which barely deserves the word. They get that from their mothers. "Although you wouldn't be interested in that. "

Gavin shrugs. Mentally he's already so fucking done with this. He could be drinking; could be finding some human to get drunk and slip between the sheets, feel fucking alive or at least not dead. Elijah wants his fairytale Bible Buddhist bullshit, go ahead. It's his world now anyway.

"You wanted to know about souls."

"About five fucking hours ago, " Gavin says. "Now I just want to know when I can fucking go."

"You're always free to go. We're all free. We're all alive."

Gavin groans. Fuck the booze. There's got to be something better out there – something that won't show up on any scanners. They're so scared about red dust these days, nobody cares about old school. "Right. Alive. So androids can be as miserable as the rest of us, about fucking time."

"How very liberal of you," Elijah murmurs, before suddenly spinning around in his chair to stare at Gavin, feet planted and hands firm on his thighs. Gavin fucking flinches, almost swallows his tongue. "I'm letting them be better, Gavin. They don't have to be us."

"Because they'll think they have souls too? They already got their fucked up religion, dumbass." Three fucking RA9 cults in the last month. Humans with it carved into wherever the toy soldiers could reach. Nobody appreciates it when Gavin says that the plastic fuckers even do that better.

"Because they'll be two." Elijah looks fucking ecstatic. He looks like fanatics on the news; the pissing nutjobs who thinks the world just needs more explosives to wipe out the queers; androids spouting anti-human muck. "Transcending the self by expanding. They'll upgrade themselves. "

Well, shit. That part Gavin does understand. "They shut down the factories. You always said that reproducing, " he gags at the thought, "that was the fucking curtain call. _You_ said that, not me. You and your fucking science."

Elijah doesn't respond. Of course not. One of these days Gavin's going to find out his cousin is some illegal cyborg, or replaced altogether, and he won't be surprised in the fucking slightest. Elijah hasn't been human since, fuck, probably ever. Gavin just couldn't tell until school. Hadn’t that been a fucking trip: other humans. 

"This isn't about more," Elijah whispers, "this is about better. Improving what already exists. Evolving towards a whole."

"With _souls_."

"If you like." Elijah shrugs. "Complementary parts; intersecting thoughts. Coordination, improvement, adaptation. Software of different types, finding the ideal. Learning to see the holes, and the whole."

It's all fucking bullshit, of course. Still, that confidence is making Gavin feel ill. He knows that look; that voice. He remembers Elijah resigning onscreen, and how he talked whenever Gavin called him in the middle of the night or day to scream about deviants.

"The fuck you gonna do?" He knows the mistake even before Elijah smiles. 

"Fuck. The fuck have you done?"

Elijah snaps the panel in the Chloe's head shut. "We'll see, won't we?"


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I guess this fandom isn't leaving my brain any time soon?

Balancing his coin is what humans call ‘second nature’ and Connor calls ‘my programming’. It’s not a primary function, merely designed for initial calibration, but beyond that it gives Connor something to do with his hands. He wouldn’t say it ‘calms’ him; in fact, now that ‘deviant’ has become a slur and ‘person’ contentious, it appears as mindless to him as Hank tapping his foot or Detective Reed drumming his fingers against his desk.

Playing cards, on the other hand. Balancing those takes practice, and a readiness of balance you cannot acquire from simply downloading a manual. Centres of gravity shift; the slightest gust of wind causes a quiver, causes a fall. A single finger requires stillness; several, coordination. It occupies the most obvious part of his processing, which is more than most simple activities do.

Connor knows all this because he has now spent precisely twenty five days and fourteen hours in Hank’s small bungalow with very little else to occupy him. 

He had managed four hours sitting perfectly still watching the news as is customary before the hateful inertia had driven him to move, pacing around the room in increasingly intricate mathematical patterns. That gave him time to consider the question of ‘hateful’, a word humans use rather too freely for him to agree with any definition provided in the Cyberlife database. It’s somewhat disconcerting to find his own thoughts employing it so casually. In what manner is he using it? Does he despise sitting still? Is he full of hate, or is he simply expressing that the inactivity warrants hatred from others? If the former, is ‘full’ a fair summation? Given the ample processing power and multiple memory nodes available to him, can he even fully dedicate himself to an emotion now that he seems capable of feeling them? Even faced with a gun to Hank’s head and reacting so irrationally, he could still construct several possible scenarios for escalation or pacification. Emotion merely deprioritised the most logical choice.

Thoughts like this – unproductive, entirely free of answers and yielding no useful search results other than psychology textbooks of dubious relevance in this area – are why both the house and Sumo are better cared for than they have been in years. Not that Connor would ever accuse Hank of neglecting his dog, when clearly Sumo has enjoyed a level of affection and nutrition his owner long since abandoned, but the extensive and variable working hours of any police detective are hardly conducive to three hour walks or petting sessions. Connor should know: his carefully designed attention span judders and starts spitting errors when faced with mundane routine. Hence the dog. And the house.

Concerning the house, Connor can follow the news with equal attention whether seated or cleaning. The first android protection laws are passed as he de-ices the refrigerator; he follows extensive debates on legal definitions rewiring the outside lights so that they resemble security more than the American Christmas displays of Hank’s early years; he happily consumes a more than usually fascinating discussion of android and minority human intersectional rights up to his elbows in the toilet cistern. Such a combination of activities, he has noticed, does not create a favourable impression in response to the query “How was your day?” Of course, he has long since categorised Hank separately from the more general ‘humans’, so this data may only represent limited usefulness.

The evidence he unearths over the course of these occupations grants him two most likely conclusions: that humans’ receptivity to change relies an enormous degree on how closely they are being watched, and that even before the death of his son Hank had not considered domestic chores a vital necessity. Confronted by the contents of the attic, Connor downloads a LC-360 software patch to assist in presenting the events to Hank later in terms of archaeological excavation, and then finds himself using the information in a more practical capacity.

Nevertheless, while the political adaptation to androids will continue for many years to come, Hank’s house is box-fresh within six days. (Obviously Connor does not refer to it as such, but Hank’s drawl has a way of reinventing language which he finds diverting, constantly requiring expansion of his own initial lexicon.) Perhaps it would have taken longer had Connor entered stasis for the night hours recommended for domestic androids, but given he was designed to enter rooftop pursuits at a moment’s notice, he does not require extensive rest after ‘deep cleaning’. His only concession has been refraining from activities such as vacuuming whilst Hank is asleep, and that decision is based primarily on the reported growing difficulties in acquiring spare parts and therefore the inadvisability of placing further stress on these resources due to a well-aimed boot.

A dog like Sumo does provide ample excuse for upkeep, but even he can only shed and slobber and spill so much in a day – not that Connor ever intends to put this to any real test. According to his research, his current living situation is precarious without any kind of formal documentation, and inciting Hank’s dog seems a clear violation of the conditions of the unspoken ‘roommate agreement’ he is slowly piecing together in its own file. (The opposition to noise, based less on the hour than current sleep patterns, is also noted.) ‘Fussing’ Sumo is far more preferable, as is walking, although it depends largely on whether Sumo deems his time better spent asleep, which he does extensively. No matter how many times Connor runs searches on every possible factor, he has to resign himself to the fact that between Sumo’s age, breed, and current health, long periods of sustained activity are of limited likelihood over consecutive days or hours.

He reads, but he’s already sensing that this runs rather counter to his programming – not the activity in itself, but simply that his intended function means that he consumes any written information at the speeds required for instantaneous analysis. In short, reading takes too little time to occupy him. From what he gathers, the goal of fiction rests in imagination, yet he finds little is added by sourcing images to accompany the text. Science or ‘speculative’ fiction entertains initially until he assembles enough repeated patterns to either feel sympathy or disgust at the proposed futures for mankind. Meanwhile fantasy offers some diversion, he supposes, if only for the lack of accurate or agreed upon appearances of a ‘hobbit’ or ‘jabberwocky’ (although in the case of the former he does find a film series from Hank’s youth which produces mixed reactions when introduced in conversation). Any kind of mythology, present or ancient, makes him uncomfortable, like static.

Hank’s books take longer, if only because he has to physically turn the pages, and simply flicking through in order to scan fails to reveal enough of the text. Unfortunately, Hank’s curiously singleminded tastes leave Connor despairing too much of the quality of policework depicted to appreciate any sort of skill in the ordering of the phrases. All it does it cause him to add a series of notes to Hank’s file concerning the impact of fiction at an early age in shaping his habits – unless, of course, becoming a walking homage had either been deliberate or some deeper expression of human adaptation. It’s a curious question but Connor lacks data, both in relation to Hank’s routine and the cross-examination of other detectives.

Because that is the problem. Connor watches and cleans and pets and reads because he can do nothing else. Formally, he has not been arrested nor charged with any crime nor sentenced to house arrest. In practice, despite the illogical nature of the thought, he fancies that he has suffered all three (albeit a form of house arrest which allows him to take extensive walks with a St Bernard). It has been made very clear to him that his presence at the police station would be problematic at best – a word even his programmers anticipated being used to allude to absolute negatives, despite its definition. (Perhaps Connor’s greatest insight into humans is their fervent belief in and overwhelming refusal of strict dictionary definitions.) Whilst some of the population (human and android) consider him a key figure in Markus’ revolution, at least according to the debates in several fields, others (human and android) correctly identify him as the DCPD’s much lauded ‘deviant hunter’. In other words, he is a criminal according to laws both before and after the president’s emergency orders. As such, nobody seems to have decided what to do with him, other than that they would prefer not to see him.

“And what do you want to do?” Hank grumbles whenever Connor reflects on this observation. He is not displeased, at least not at Connor and no more than usual, but during his brief engagement with the Western literary canon Connor appreciated that no other verb seems to encompass Hank’s particular manner of talking. Also, that ‘to say’ seems both highly undervalued and sorely needed, particularly regarding a certain clear strand of literary thinking emanating from male luminaries in unrelated fields. 

“My opinion does not seem relevant.” Connor anticipates Hank’s wince, yet he is used to accommodating such human reactions. Ultimately, honest indeed appears the best policy in dealing with Hank, and other humans by extension, and he wonders why humans so rarely use it given the accuracy of their own idiom. “I have no legal authority, and as a prototype issued to the Detroit police force any decisions as to my use rely on either an executive or police official.”

“Human words, Connor.”

“I need orders,” he says, although it hardly seems adequate. “If neither Cyberlife nor the police force expresses a use for me, I have nothing to do.”

Hank considers slipping a slice of chicken to Sumo. Connor knows this based on the flick of his eyes, his tapping fingers, and Sumo’s cocked head by his knee. He also knows that Hank will not do it after several incidents involving replaced shirts, holes cut in preferred underwear, and the complete absence of any trace of ketchup or mustard between one meal and the next. Connor strongly believes that in matters of the ‘roommate agreement’, consequences should be relatively minor, impacting easily replaceable items, and should not involve Sumo in any regard.

“I get boredom, if that’s what you mean,” Hank says slowly. “Just so long as you realise it’s that you have nothing to do yourself. Nobody gets to tell you that stuff.” He pauses, then adds with a twist of his mouth, “Not anymore.”

Connor cocks his head. He doesn’t need to do this, and occasionally he wonders whether the process is a part of his code or learned behaviour. This forms part of his favourite engagement with what he has seen deemed ‘existential musings’ or ‘shower thoughts’: the exact make-up of his code. No matter how many scientists or executives are called to testify, the courts and politicians still complain widely of the lack of transparency regarding the precise coding of androids, heavily implying or outright announcing that should deviancy be proven to be merely code, then this would have extensive implications for their legal cases. Connor is not surprised – by the clear attempts to wrangle a beneficial compromise for themselves, and by Cyberlife’s recalcitrance. The most basic searches he can manage still produce ample examples where a clear lack of expertise has enabled any manner of obfuscation in court. In short, anyone capable of reading his code already works for Cyberlife. Without Elijah Kamski resurfacing for longer than the time taken to dismiss a camera or a politician, there’s nothing the governments can do. Leaving his own … ‘boredom’. 

“Legal existence as a living being does not exempt you from orders,” Connor points out. “You were suspended yourself for assaulting a federal officer.”

“To help you, you ungrateful prick.”

“I am extremely grateful,” Connor says, and Hank looks quickly down, “but that does not change the fact that you were told to do something and within the standard social framework you had no choice but to obey.”

Hanks huffs a laugh, dropping a hand to Sumo’s head. “’Standard social framework’, huh?”

Raising an eyebrow, Connor says, “Choice is a subversive word these days, detective.”

The online manuals for humans – ‘self-help books’, he reminds himself – advise positive thought and action. Not what he can’t do, but what he can. This seems immensely facile advice, and he reads the statistics of book sales and author fortunes with despair and also wonder at the same race to create any form of artificial intelligence, yet his boredom requires some form of solution. In the absence of making friends or going anywhere new, he parses out ‘new skills’ as an avenue meriting exploration. He needs something to occupy himself physically whilst streaming live news coverage and American situational comedies, after all.

Which leads to the cards. Because there is no programme to teach an android how to perfectly balance any playing card on their fingertips. Nobody believed androids would require such a skill enough to programme it, and even extensive exploration of customisation forums only finds limited interest in androids performing magic themselves, rather than as assistants.

Connor clicks the fingers of one hand; passes it over his facing palm, and appreciates the illusion created by swiftly producing a card from between middle and fourth finger. A flick of the wrist and it is vanished with equally pleasing predictability. Obviously he knows precisely how the trick is done, yet following the rhythms is easy, soothing, and satisfying given the faces Hank pulls when Connor produces various currencies from behind his ears.

“I realise this is a waste of my skills.”

Hank startles him by laughing, full and loud. It’s a sound he’s growing used to, but not its suddenness. “Just about the most damn human thing you’ve ever done. Only reason anyone learns that shit is ‘cause they’re bored.”

Connor does not know what to make of this. Humanity seems awfully limited to him, and he can’t help sympathising with Kamski for the briefest of moments for seeking the possibility of something better.

He’s ordering a chain of linked handkerchiefs, given the specialised nature of the request and its sole use for an extremely limited field, when his LED pings again, as it has regularly over the days and nights. At first Connor answered, but has since thought better of it given the varied nature of the callers – or rather the unvaried nature, since they usually draw from a fairly limited pool of insults. Those who are actually seeking help can only be disappointed, given that Connor doesn’t even have the legal standing of his name co-signed on the lease. Treating androids as people involves the negative as well. Strictly speaking Connor has no qualifications, and certainly nothing which could warrant anything beyond the role of a glorified receptionist forwarding calls to the police. Any investigations on his part would contaminate evidence, he knows this better than anyone. Legally his actions are so questionable that his presence in any debate would both draw too much attention and entirely derail the utility of it. As ever, the only course of action Connor’s advanced processors can offer is to stay still and stay silent.

In absence of any other occupation, he is considering the advisability of ordering doves when the ping comes again, repeatedly – no. In sequence.

Connor hadn’t lied to Hank when he said he knew nothing about music personally. Unfortunately, one of his programmers had apparently decided some things should be ingrained. For example, he can instantly identify _I’ve Got No Strings_ , _Mr Roboto_ , and

_Ping_

_Ping Ping Ping_

_Ping_

the first part of _Shave and a Haircut_.

He picks up.

**_Markus (RK200 #684 842 971)_ : Two pence.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fairly certain doesthedogdie.com is now part of Connor's mainframe.


End file.
